The Daedric Princes Must Be Crazy
by Ms-Deunan
Summary: You are the (mostly retired because there is nothing else to do) heroic Dragonborn who saves the girl (temporarily) and dooms Westeros (probably). Crack!Fic. Warning: fantasy swearing, past drunkenness and debauchery, future-suggested multiple character deaths.


**Disclaimer:** do not own _TES: Skyrim_ or _Game of Thrones_.

**Written for:** LJ com writerverse.

**Prompt:** "lost," second person perspective, and at least 500 words.

* * *

There is a vast field of grass and rock before you, and no matter where you look, you cannot see the Throat of the World. The single highest point in all of Skyrim, with its jagged crags and snow-worn paths. The Throat is a marker for all questing eyes, save those who look on the darkest cloud-covered nights. The mountain, whose journey from base to tip is three fortnights long of grueling and uninterrupted climbing, is missing.

Just gone.

There, to your left; then nowhere.

Actually, the landscape in its entirety has changed. It had been a forest, and populated with far more than the spindly white-trunks of dog-wood trees it was known for; like wolves and bears and rampaging giants and that pack of giant spiders you had been in the process of harvesting for potions. The forest is no more, not a single tree, not a single spider leg, not a strand of silk.

You're mind goes back to that disjointed panic you woke to four years ago, a bound prisoner heading to Imperil execution.

At least you remember your name this time – rather, you remember the name you go by these days because you woke in a cart of thieves and murders from a blow to the head and an absence of memory.

At least you're not (almost) naked this time. Always a Good Thing, that. Though, if you're being honest, there was that one Daedric drinking competition with 'Sam' a month ago (which you totally would have won if not for his godly constitution and) that you had not minded as much as you should have. And between the execution-that-wasn't and not-Sam, there had been, well, _Astrid_. In all, you're somewhat used to waking up in odd places now, by your recogoning such an event happens once per year. But this, this shift? Its suddenness brings sweat and cold hands and thin air you can't quite keep in your lungs because something is Obviously and Terribly Wrong.

With a precision that speaks of long habit, you cast Clairvoyant and are immensely relieved when happy path-finder's light sparks into existence at your feet. For want of anything better, you follow it.

Of course, because your luck comes into play, you are lead to a pretty Nord lass on a rock about to be eaten by three dragons.

The terror you had thought yourself above slides away as quickly as it came; you know what to do with dragons, after all.

You should have known the easy part would be found in the dragon-slaying.

You should have known to avoid Nords, all of those fetching tall and pale northerners and their ridiculously _ridiculous_ hair, after any and all sudden scenery-changes that lack a hang-over and the aftertaste of stale mead.

In four days – after you've killed your way through an army and a half of nonsensical pike-twirlers, besworded Redguards, an idiotic Nord or two, and a handful of equally insane Imperials – you will settle nicely into a privet room in a Meereen tavern. There you'll decide over a pint of not-quite-mead to avoid any and all Nords in the future. And maybe Civil Wars. And all armies in general. It is a sorry and sad truth that this will be the second time a four-year remembered lifespan you'll made a like-minded decision.

But right now, you are in a sunny field flitting about with a conjured broadsword and killing three dragons nearly at once. You'd consider it a challenge if they hadn't been so tiny, as if instead of being resurrected from ancient draconic bones they had been birthed into the world, birthed and still growing. As it is, it doesn't even take a Shout to keep them on the ground, just two spells and three swings of your sword and they're dead.

You feel cheated. Absolutely robbed.

You turn to the blonde _-of course she's a fletching blonde-_ Nord and it's a good thing you stopped doing this for the monetary reward because she's pulled a dagger from her blue dress and tries to stab you. The look of horror and loathing on her face isn't often thrown your way these days. And while the novelty of adoration and worshipful gratitude has worn off, you expected some type of thanks. Especially from one of her lot, prideful keepers of Dragonborn lore that they were.

You Levitate the dagger from her with a quickness taught to thieves (and assassins) and with the magical skill required of the publically acknowledged Arch-Mage to the College of Winterhold. After a look at the steel blade, it is tossed behind you with more force than strictly needed because _really? Steel? This armor is tested routinely on dragon teeth and claws – made by dragon hide and dragon bone – what could the blunt edges of steel do to it? And let us speak not of the magical reinforcements impregnated by hand into each forge-hot piece._ You are not a little insulted by the Nord who must think you so easily defeated.

"Alright, enough! Stop making a ruckus." The pitch she has reached in her squealing hurts. "Twice cursed Nords and their troublesome god patrons. O Sithis and His void! Just how stupid has the sun made you? Never mind, never mind. Sssh, sssh. Calm. You can call me Blue-Hand-Rivers. I mean you no harm."

When she continues screeching you remove your helmet because maybe it's the iconic Dragon Priest she fears. It had certainly caught you off guard the first time you saw one them jump out of its coffin, you know, before you killed it and looted its corpse.

Only she stumbles backwards, with a gasp that finally brings quiet, and then quickly runs away at the sight of your unmasked face.

Well.

Well! _Daemora take you too, warmblood._ Seven holds welcomed you to take whatever they had on hand, from the freshest catches of the sea to the kissing-madams and touch-masters from the Silk District. You, who as an Argonian, belong to a displaced people thought to be nothing more than uncultured bipedaled lizards. They know you everywhere, welcome you everywhere, and love you everywhere. Crazy shiftless Nord. There is a list held in-trust by the Jarl of every Hold filled with the names of hopeful courters waiting for the chance to woo you. A list that includes –not one, but two!– Khajiit in all their twitchy-ear, furry-tailed feline glory. It's quite the accomplishment, really, for one beastfolk to want the other. Not that you'd go for it, because: _EW, cat!_

Jaunty path-finder's light has you walking back to the scaly carcasses, which have defied a four-year running certainty and have not evaporated in a magical flash of golden soul-ribbons for easy consumption. You have been eating the souls of dragons since they started popping up from the ground, they have been a source of immense power your entire (remembered) life.

The fact that it hasn't happened in its instantaneous manner means that you actually have been cheated.

You pout, mentally.

"Perhaps," you say aloud to the spirit companion spelled into existence during the fight, "there is a limit after all."

He does not answer. You take his silence to mean there is something wrong with the dragons, because you both know there is absolutely nothing wrong on your end.

_Perhaps_, you think, _physical contact is needed?_

The left glove is removed and you explore the cooling scales of the newly dead. Their bodies are only the size of a horse, the type bred for strength and durability in Skyrim's harsh and often ice-cold climate. You have never seen them this small. Not ever.

You find yourself appalled at the thought of their form, the fragile bone crowns and delicate wings. They had been cute – nay, adorable! – and you wonder if you should have not tried taming them as once done in Solstheim.

Oh well.

They have, at the very least, left behind enough materials to make you positively gleeful. Armor and swords of draconic origin has long been a favorite, but now? Now you can justify the use of their supple hides to make a tunic or two for the non-combat leisure days.

You also find yourself wondering what dragon tastes like; is it a meat more fish than bird? Should it be slow cooked or flash-fried? May it taste better seasoned with spices or sea salt or sweet root? Would it be best served with malted wine or honeyed mead?

Truly, you hope whatever oblivion plane has swallowed you whole has been over-run by the little drakes. The prospect of dragons being able to breed, to increase exponentially, is exciting. And new!

Actually, now that you're thinking of it, such a thing has all the markings of an Epic Quest. The kind with world-ending consequences if failed. You've had more than enough experience with such quests to recognize them by now – even without a rumor-slinging barkeep to fill you in on the 'whos' and 'whats' and 'wheres.' You can recognize them, surely, even without a Daedric Prince explicitly outlining what you're expected to do.

And you'll start the quest, just as soon as you're done with the blacksmithing and the tanning and the tailoring and the enchanting (and the cooking)-

-Because you are not just 'a Dragonborn' but **'The Dragonborn!(TM)'** and you Quest Best in Style.

* * *

Seven minutes ago on the other side of rocky grasslands and lea, Daenerys Targaryen almost literally runs into her worried advisers. Of her three most trusted, it will be Grey Worm who first charges against the murder, a handful of Unsullied by his side.

He does not think they will need additional men to take down a single unarmed figure in wood-carved armor, wearing a copper face-mask and a purple head-scarf.

As it turns out, he is very, very wrong.


End file.
